Interim
by backtograce
Summary: Some stories cannot ever be finished; some changes take patience, care, and time. Rue begins to heal. Rue/Mytho, post-series.
1. Summer

(FYI: This story will be four chapters long! The entire fic has already been written, but it's so monstrously long that I wouldn't feel right about unleashing it on the world all at once, haha. I'll be posting the remaining sections over this upcoming week. Anyway, it takes place immediately after the series ends, and is Mytho/Rue, with some small moments of Fakir/Ahiru much, much later. The song lyrics at the beginning of each section are from "The Weight of Us" by Sanders Bohlke. Be warned: some sexy stuff happens in a later part! Or look forward to it, whatever works for you, haha.)

* * *

_Summer_  
(there's a cold heart buried beneath / and warm blood, running deep)

Their chariot flies for days and nights and does not seem to think of stopping. Above, whispered words are unraveling into oblivion, beckoning them nearer, nearer still. Below, the land is dark and distant, rippling like the pages of a storybook.

At the first color of dawn, Rue wakes. Her face is pale in the dim light. Unthinking, she reaches out, searching for the nearest warmth.

The prince speaks her name, moving to steady her. He has not slept, too thrilled, too stricken, but still, his hands settle gently upon her as she trembles. With one fingertip, he wipes away a tear that has beaded in her eyelashes. She does not answer.

"Rue," he says again, softer.

She breathes in; the air drags across her teeth, sits swollen in her throat. At last, she looks up, her dark, mussed curls wreathed at the edges of her cheeks. She thinks of red – but there is only gold in his eyes, warm, so bright even in the haze of early morning. Her heartbeat stutters then slows at last, reassured.

"A dream," she murmurs, and they both hear what she does not say.

He takes her hand. She rests her head upon his shoulder but does not sleep again. The swans beat their wings in perfect rhythm, their whistling breaths like music.

The chariot flies on.

* * *

Siegfried's castle is just as he has told her, stone and stained glass woven through clouds, the towers nearly dizzying in their elegance. The gates have stiffened with rust and the walls seem to writhe, gnarled vines coiled around their corners, but his smile is still warmer than she has ever seen it.

He reaches to her. Rue hesitates, her lips pulled thin.

"You will be welcomed with open arms," he assures her. "Do not be afraid."

"Of course," she says, as though it's simple.

It is even lovelier within. Every floor is a clean, white marble, her reflection shimmering beneath her, blithely unmarred. Tapestries flutter against each impossibly large window, their colors faded but still beautiful, precious stones threaded against every other deliberate stitch. Siegfried makes sure she misses not a sight, pointing to this and that, telling her _the kitchen is just around this corner _and _every year, they would decorate these rooms for the festival _and _there, I used to play there as a child. _His every feeling is clear, bright in his eyes;he is home, and Rue can't help but smile.

It isn't until they've wandered through a few corridors, tired but happy, that something seems strange: there is no one around.

At first, it's almost amusing, as if everyone's simply stepped out for a collective afternoon stroll. He leads her to his own quarters on the highest floor, the walls arched and gray, the ornate furniture coated with dust that scatters when touched, burning in the sunlight. They sit by the window, hands entangled, and wait.

An hour passes, then another. The castle sits empty.

It is painfully gradual, the change that comes over her prince. At first, he wanders through the hallways, knocking on doors left open, calling the names of people she does not and will perhaps never know. The tenth call passes without answer, and his voice begins to strain. Walking becomes running, their footsteps seeming the only sound in all the world. The sun brims just beneath the horizon. Soon, it is he who grips to her, stiff and without thought.

"I will go into town," he tells her. "Surely, there will be…"

Rue does not want him to abandon her in this aching silence, but is more unwilling still to see his reaction should he find the town just as unforgiving. She stays. She wanders. She walks in twirling paths across the cobblestone, toes pointed, breaths shallow. She rests in open rooms, touching fingertips to unmade beds, half-full cupboards, clean gowns and tunics hung in armoires, as if washed only the day before. Some tables bear plates set in perfect patterns, still smelling of lunch and dinner. It is like they have vanished in mid-thought, she thinks. It is like the story has simply erased them, without grief, without wonder, without care.

She presses one palm to a wall. For a moment, she feels not stone, but paper, buckling beneath her touch.

* * *

For months, they wait. What else is there to do? This is Siegfried's home, and Rue knows he will not abandon it, not without some measure of truth, some semblance of peace. They must stay. They must see if anyone returns for him.

After a day, they trade their elaborate garments for simpler attire, folding them in careful patterns and hiding them away in drawers where they will not be seen again for days, weeks, months. They have not yet been married, but still, they sleep together in his bed, Siegfried's arms curled around her, hands pressed to the low of her back as if forming a mime she cannot see. Rue prefers to rest her head upon his chest, his heartbeat echoing all through her, steady and warm.

Each day is similar, gentle in its activities. They take walks in the morning, read from the library as evening eases the light away. They fill the silence with pleasant talk of things that do not matter. Siegfried often tells her tales from the time before he left his story, finding comfort in such memories. After a while, they find pairs of toe shoes in an unassuming room, wrapped in cloth and stiff from disuse but not too worn – there were surely performers and artists here once in such a large kingdom, after all, and besides, who is to say whether ballet can exist in one story and not another - so in every room, they dance, Rue humming broken notes of songs she's long forgotten to lead their steps, Siegfried catching her when she wavers, overcome. Wanting to be kept busy, she elects herself to prepare their meals, brushing aside Siegfried's gentle insistence that it would be only fair to take turns. They find impossibly fresh food in the depths of the kitchen, recipes left neatly arranged on flour-stained tables. Cooking, she soon discovers, is not a talent of hers, her dishes dark and distinct, but still, he eats them all without the slightest of hesitation, thanking her with a kiss at the crease of her mouth each time.

She will never speak it out loud, _never_ – but Rue knows she could spend an eternity like this, her and her prince and no one else. Once, she dreamed endlessly of moments like this, of a time when distractions would cease to exist and no one could come close. She is not strong enough to deny herself a private sort of pleasure at this outcome – and yet, her prince walks with a weight at his shoulders, his eyes grave as he looks upon his empty kingdom. Every day, he leaves her for a time to venture through the land, searching. Every day, he returns alone.

Rue waits. She does not want to see him in pain, to watch the light in his eyes be stifled – and yet, a small, sharp part of her wonders why she is not enough. She understands, of course she understands. She knows so well of his people, that he cared for them and protected them and gave of his very heart to save them, but she cannot help this aching, this fear. She waits, convinced that this will be the day he will not return, that he will find them at last and stay where they have gone, forgetting even her name. She is different from what she once was, yes, but not as different as he believes. Her ugliness has been smothered, but not silenced. Rue is still selfish. Rue is still afraid. Rue still wants and wants and will never have enough.

_You have caused this_, the Raven's blood whispers to her when all is quiet. _You have driven them all away. There is no room in this story for such darkness. _

But Siegfried returns all the same, brightening when he sees her, his arms open and beckoning her close. She watches him eat the dinner she has prepared and suddenly feels tears sliding down the swell of her cheeks, hot and pricking.

He looks to her with widened eyes, his hand reaching out at once to touch her own. "What's the matter?"

She responds by kissing him, fast and hard. Her hands crumple tight to his neck as though he may slip through her fingers by mistake, like water, like sand. There was a time when he sat still and silent as she moved to touch him, a ghost against her skin, his eyes open and burning her very insides with their emptiness – but now he meets her lips fully, urging her closer. His hands tangle in her hair. She smiles against his mouth.

Rue is still selfish, still wanting – but perhaps if she learns not to be afraid, the darkness in her will quiet, and the rest will soon follow.

* * *

It is summer when a voice that is not theirs echoes through the castle. They are preparing to dance, as they often do when there is nothing else to fill the silence. Siegfried lingers in his stretches, his breaths long and steady. Rue ties her toe shoes, the ribbons soft against her dry skin. A dark curl of hair tickles at her nose, and she reaches to tuck it back.

The sound brims all around them without warning. Her fingertips still against the crook of her ear. He looks up, and they share a glance, a mutual warm look of oh, our imagination, surely –

Another shout, more urgent, and Siegfried runs for the door.

By the time Rue arrives in the entryway, half-knotted ribbons trailing at her heels, an old man she has never seen before is wobbling on his knees against the marble, kissing her prince's hands.

"I had heard rumors," he cries over and over again, as though it isn't being heard each time before. Siegfried's smile is breathtaking in its joy. He must know this person, Rue thinks. He looks as if an official of some sort. A priest long out of practice, perhaps.

"Some have seen you," the man says. "Oh, they have seen you, but it was thought an illusion, a demon sent to torment, and so they hid –"

He notices her standing at the stairs then. Siegfried introduces her, speaks her name as though it is the most beautiful word in all the world, but the man's kind face distorts as she nears. He looks into her eyes. He presses a kiss, only one, to her knuckles. At once, she feels his fear against her. Rue pulls from his grip too quickly, her teeth caught on the greeting she had meant to give.

They move to the kitchen. She finds herself unwilling to sit between them, feeling sturdier if she stands at a distance, and so she prepares tea. The man tells Siegfried of what has happened.

They waited, his people. They knew their prince was surely suffering in some far-away land, the Raven's hunger merciless; they knew time had somehow halted in its tracks, the trees forever darkened with the weight of late autumn, their clothes and books and buildings like new no matter how much use they weathered. His people prayed. They hoped with all their might for his triumphant return. They sought and sang and sacrificed, their hearts full and aching – but what felt like ten lifetimes passed and answers did not come.

The change seeped in, then. It seemed like mere illness at first, bodies withering, skin thinned and pale like paper. Then, in the midst of a daily vigil, someone cried out. A child had broken at the seams, crumpling in a mess of color and parchment, as though never even human to begin with. Others followed, always at the simplest, most horrible of times – mid-meal, mid-song, mid-sentence. No one could fathom a way in which to stop such a thing, for there were no ailments, no warnings; a person was simply there and then not. Many grew hysterical, convinced it was the Raven's final curse, and so they fled the land in droves, never to return. Others remained, ever hopeful, and – well, the man says darkly. Their fates are clear enough.

A spot of tea spits from the kettle onto Rue's wrist, but she feels nothing. With a harsh breath, she turns her head to steal a glimpse at the man at the table. Only just now, having heard of colors and parchments and people who were no longer people does she realize what is odd about him. His body moves strangely, the shape of him thin, his colors slow and too absolute, like an illustration in a storybook. She imagines touching him only to see paint smudged in the lines of her palms.

Her prince sits rigid in his chair, hardly breathing. The man glances to her, his eyes furtive, and she looks away.

"I've forgotten the cups," Rue says, even though they are in the cupboard just above her head. She slips out into the hall then pulls the door shut behind her. Her back settles softly against the wood.

Siegfried's voice is hoarse, uneven. "What could have caused this?"

"It is impossible to know for sure," the man answers with equal graveness. "Of course, it could be the Raven's curse, as so many feared. Perhaps the land could not bear the burden of so much time having passed without you. Perhaps something vital has simply seeped away. Clearly, we have been abandoned by a higher power," he says. "Or…"

"What is it?"

A pause. Rue cannot see for herself, but she knows he is looking to every depth of the room, making sure she has truly gone. Her hands settle to her chest, fingers curled like wings to keep her heart warm, to brace it for what is coming next.

"The girl."

"Rue," Siegfried corrects at once.

The man sighs. "This may seem a mere fantasy," he continues, "but I always believed you would return at last fulfilled, perhaps with a beautiful royal to take as your princess. You have certainly heard of other ruined lands near us, in which such a marriage restored it to its former glory and beyond. Why, news recently came to me of a kingdom not far from here. It is said that their prince was once a monster, a beastly shadow of his former self, and his marriage to a virtuous woman who loved him despite it brought prosperity to -"

Siegfried gently interjects. "What has this to do with us?"

"My prince, does it not seem best to follow suit? It is the best chance we have to restore our home to splendor. Tragedies may be reversed! Life will return here and flourish yet again!"

"Perhaps it still will. When Rue and I are married, I am sure that –"

It is the man's turn to cut in with vigor, his gentleness chipping away. "I am not blind," he snaps. "That girl is not a royal nor does she have a worthy heart. Far, _far _from it. You must see what I see, dear Siegfried. I do not even have to look. I am simply near her and all I smell is blood! It cannot be hidden! It will never –"

"That is _enough_," Siegfried orders, and Rue will not hear anymore. She enters at once, her breath shallow, lamenting her foolishness for having not realized the cups were already present. The men offer her half-true smiles and turn their conversation towards trivialities, though not for long – the priest takes his leave while the sun is still high in the sky, promising to return in due time for "further discussion." Rue watches from a high window, looking not to him but to Siegfried, who walks with him to the gates.

They lay in bed that night, their breathing an uneven rhythm. Rue sighs and raises her chin only to see that his eyes are still open, dim shapes of gold turned towards the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

He smiles and touches a cold hand to her cheek, but says nothing.

She does not sleep that night.

* * *

It is not even dawn and she is already in the kitchen, kettles whistling and fire crackling. Anything to fill the hollowness of these rooms; anything to quiet the thrumming of her blood. She buries herself in the work, plates set in lovely arrangements, the food warm and for once not burnt. Rue closes her eyes and inhales, savoring this moment of perfection; she has known so few. With soft footsteps, she goes to wake him, pausing briefly before a mirror to frown at the gaunt color just beneath her eyes.

Their room is empty.

She steadies herself against the half-open door. Calls for him, but hears no answer. Drags sticky fingertips along his place in bed, still warm, where she'd seen him resting not an hour ago. Her breath thins and turns cold. Her heart is a bell, ringing, ringing. My prince, she thinks. He has gone. I have lost him.

Rue searches. Her footsteps beat against the stone, brusque, lonely sounds. With each silent room passed, she moves more recklessly, her skirt tumbling roughly against the sharp sway of her legs. At the curve of the staircase, she passes a window – only to stop, and with wide eyes, return to it. The new sun falls in waves along the field. Siegfried stands amidst it, his back turned to her, half-melted within the color and light. Breathless, she hurries to the door and is there in only a moment, mere feet from him, the wind tangling in her curls. She feels silly now, _ridiculous_ even, her cheeks darkening with color. What was she thinking, acting so irrationally? Of course he hadn't…

Something in her trembles. Instead of calling out, she erases the distance; unthinking, she holds him from behind, her arms tight around the breadth of his chest.

He stiffens then relaxes, warm against her. "Rue," he says, chuckling. He raises a hand to rest against her own, his palm pressed just so to where her grip meets, fingers strained. "Good morning. I had wondered where you'd gone."

Rue says nothing. She is so weak, helpless to do anything but clutch him tighter, bury herself in this desperate intimacy, his touch and his sound and his smell seeming all around her. Her lips press to his shoulder, unraveling in a harsh sigh. She wants to say: Stay. Don't leave me. I need you. The words wither, swollen in her throat. She does not know how to set them free.

He says her name once more, his hand tightening over her own. "Is something wrong?"

One breath, then another. They do not come easily. She shifts her fingers, curved just so: love, soft against him. If she cannot speak it, she will show him with her hands, her toes, her sway and rise, as only dancers know how.

"I thought you had gone," she says.

He smiles. "Where would I have gone?" He asks, honestly baffled, and it is as if the day before never even happened.

They eat their breakfast there in the dip of the field, the rising sun warm on their faces, their hands quickly dirtied and sticking to the grass, still thick with dew. Birds come, attracted by the food, and Siegfried feeds them from his palm, laughing when they chirp and nestle against his curled fingers. He gives a little robin to Rue to hold, but it falls silent as her hands tighten around it. Instead of singing, it nips at her palm, wanting to be set free.

"You are afraid," he says once she's released it. Rue turns her head sharply at the words, and it's enough to send the entire flock briefly into the air, feathers ruffled. "Trust them, and they will trust you."

When her cup is empty, he goes to fetch the kettle for her. Rue is left alone, watching the birds as they linger a short distance away, chirping amongst themselves as they peck at the grass. A memory comes to mind, silly, irrelevant in every way: one late afternoon, passing her dormitory at the Academy, when she had heard birds and glanced up only to see Ahiru at her high window, feeding them, laughing as they swarmed around her. A smile twitches at the corners of Rue's lips.

Ahiru was never afraid, she thinks, and tries once more.


	2. Autumn

_Autumn  
(the rights and wrongs invade us / an innocent song)_

Summer turns to fall, and even as the leaves wrinkle with dark color, as the birds draw their wings close and look southward, Rue is still trying. She feels ridiculous, like a child playing games when it is time to be serious, but still, she goes alone to the forest's edge often, beckoning to the bluebirds in the trees, her rigid hands filled with crumbs. She knows not why she still struggles with this, only that there is something to prove in winning one's favor, something small and simple but decidedly crucial to her wanting heart.

It is on a day like this that she sees it: a shimmer of white within the forest, so brief that at first, Rue believes it to be only her imagination. Still, a rustling of leaves echoes near her, and there it is again, fleetingly, as quick and careful as an animal. It's a swan, perhaps, or even an odd-colored duck. The idea warms something cold in her, and she steps into the trees after it. If any creature were to see something good in her, she thinks, it would surely be a duck.

With a few paces, she finds herself at the bank of a pond, the water clear and still, torn petals spiraling in patterns on its surface like a hundred plucked he-loves-me-not's. Rue steadies a hand against her chest; she pulls her shawl tight even though it is not cold. An elegant figure is across the way, all curls and feathers, the color of fresh snow. It dances across the water's surface, oblivious to her. It is like a swan, but no, she can see human limbs, dark amidst the white. A face, seeming made of porcelain and painted color. Hair as bright as stars. It is not possible, it _cannot _be, but –

Tutu, she thinks, and no longer remembers how to breathe.

The wind strengthens, shriveled leaves plucked from their branches, rustling in the air all around her. The woman turns and meets her eyes, and it is like a memory long since passed, once buried but now grown whole again before her very eyes. Rue can feel her blood burning, hissing. Despite it, she moves closer. Unthinking, she starts to speak. "You are…"

With soft steps, the woman in white meets her at the bank, and it is then that Rue sees her as she truly is. The garments she wears are dull, cobbled together with little more than crooked stitches and thread. Her face is young yet her hair is thin and white, very unkempt. She is a mere girl, and Rue doesn't understand why, for just a moment, she saw a creature of Magic and Wonder in her place.

"I know what you are thinking of me. I see it in your eyes," the woman says, and smiles, still lovely even in such awful disarray. "I apologize, for I am not, nor was I ever the princess of yore."

And so she tells Rue her tale, there in the shadows beneath darkened, dying trees. Once upon a time, she was not a princess but a lady, beloved and true, devoted to Tutu – not the Tutu Rue knew, but the one whose illustration in a storybook she once touched with careful fingertips. Tutu was not a true royal, but one of mere myth, the subject of countless folklore and fantasies among the townspeople. Yet she lived all the same, a young, graceful woman who made her home in the woods just beyond the kingdom with the ducks and swans. She often cared for children abandoned or lost in such treacherous depths. Five girls, the woman in white included, loved her and vowed to stay always; thus, they became her ladies and led happy lives for a spell, accompanying her to balls and festivals, comforting her as she admired the prince from afar. Oh, how she loved him. Oh, how she wanted to be near him always. But soon, the land grew dark and cold. Ravens poured from the sky like rain. Their King descended, starving, and – well, what happened soon after is known well enough, the woman says with sad eyes, and Rue must look away.

She continues. After Tutu vanished, three of her ladies took up the swords of fallen men and followed her, aiming in their grief to carve out their own hearts and serve them as meals. One remained amidst the chaos, vowing to stay and see what survived of the kingdom – but the woman in white could not find the strength to be so brave, and so she fled with several others to another land.

She takes Rue's hand then. "You must tell me the truth," she says, "for I have heard rumors that the prince has returned, alive and well. I have come all this way simply so I may see for myself, but I have been afraid to approach the castle. Oh, please!"

Rue flinches at such a bold touch, but it goes unnoticed by this girl, this woman who has grown and suffered but whose eyes have remained those of a child's, desperate and eager. Her lips purse, then thin. _Lie_, the Raven's blood tells her. She cannot.

"It's true," she answers. "He is here, and I with him."

If the woman is surprised by her curtness, by the words in which she stakes her strength, she does not show it. Her smile is dazzling, and it is not long before she is following at Rue's heels, sighing as they move within the castle's shadow. Just before the doors, Siegfried is waiting for her, his palms cupped close to a brimming teacup. He notices the woman at once, but still, he comes to her first, talking worriedly of coming winter chill as he passes the tea to her, and oh, despite it all, Rue can't help but smile.

He turns to Tutu's lady then. She says nothing of the past; she asks not a question about the Raven or his fate. She does not make a mention of Tutu, though in the lines of her face, the rise and fall of her chest, Rue sees that she wishes to. She only curtsies, wobbling on crooked ankles. "I am glad," she says, and it is enough. Siegfried's smile is warm – as it would be at the sight of any person from his long-abandoned land, of course, of _course_. Still, the woman is blushing, and Rue's careful hands falter, drops of tea left burning on the grass.

He invites her to stay in the castle, the weather colder and colder with each day that passes, but she gently refuses. She wishes to remain in the forest, a long-ago home she has sorely missed, and so she returns there, disappearing past its dark edge as the sun sinks behind it.

That night, Rue prepares dinner. Her hands curl and bend, kissed with flour. Unthinking, she bites her lip and flinches at the taste of blood, speckled along her tongue.

_Coward_, the Raven's blood says of her. It presses just beneath the skin, as though meaning to claw its way out.

Her elbows fold against the wood, scrapes burning just above the bone. A bowl spins on its side, but she cannot move to steady it. Please, she thinks. Please stop. _Please_.

_Pure and true, like you will never be. They will say he should marry her. He will marry her. The story will go on and leave you behind. It is ruined. You have ruined it. _

Rue feels as she is made of thread and stitches, twisted so tight she is ripping at the seams. For days, she sleeps little, and when she does, she dreams. She dreams of being small and thirsty, bowing under black wings, the muscles in her throat clutching at the taste of blood, foul and thick, so much like dying. She dreams of Kraehe, her lips and nails sticky as she devours a warm heart. Rue wakes and still tastes it, so sweet in her mouth. Feathers prick at her skin, even though none are there.

_My beloved, ugly daughter_, the Raven whispers at the edge of every darkness. _Did you think you could be rid of me so easily? For years and years, you ate of my rage. You bathed in my hate. You drank of my soul so greedily. How long will you pretend to have forgotten? Look at your monstrous heart and tell me I am not still within it_.

Leave me, she begs. She begs it of the night, of the coming cold, of the churning deep within her. Leave me, or swallow me whole. There can no longer be an in-between.

* * *

Then, there is a raven.

Rue stops at the top of the stairwell, carrying several garments wrinkled with wind and sun; she'd carried them out into the field for an afternoon, airing out a dour smell they'd gathered from the dressers. At first, its color seems like a strand of hair, straying in the crease of her gaze. She lifts a hand to bat it away, only to find nothing there. She turns and hears its harsh cry a moment too late, for she has already glimpsed it at the windowsill. The clothes tumble from her arms, settling in a ring at her feet.

It is aged, she sees. It is suffering, its wings thin, its breaths labored. It does not look away from her, eyes bright and burning, as she takes one step then another. She knows not what she does. There is nothing in her mind; her heart beats blank and still. With one hand, she reaches out to touch it.

The raven shrieks and claws at her palm.

Her mouth is open, but she cannot speak. Lines of blood form quick, stinging, and she brings the hand tight to her chest. The raven cries out again and then crumples into pieces. All that is left is a stain, black against the stone, smelling of ink and iron.

Much later – she cannot remember what happened in the time between – she is in the kitchen. "Try to stay still," Siegfried says as he dabs the wounds clean, holding tight when she flinches. Her lips pull thin with pain. He smiles when she looks up at him, but still, she wonders what he is thinking, sitting so near, the foul odor of blood and feathers thick in the air.

"It is me," she says. She does not mean to, but the words tear their way out, so heavy that she is rendered hoarse with the weight of them. "They've followed. If it were not for me, then—"

"Shh," he whispers. His fingertips press softly to the edge of one cut, still throbbing. "It did not follow you. It means nothing."

She is trembling. The words come quicker now, thick in the low of her throat. "What if more return?"

He sets aside the washcloth. With both hands, he takes her curled fingers and lifts them, so suddenly that she falls silent. His soft mouth grazes across her knuckles; his breath burns just below her wrist. Eyes closed, he kisses one fingertip, than the next, than the next. "You said," he says in snippets as he moves across her splayed hand, "that it was aged and hurt. You said that it died soon after. Surely it was the last, left over from the story."

Yes, but don't you see, is what she wants to say. Those are only words. I don't know how to let them in. I don't know how to not be afraid. Her lips part; she can only breathe, in then out, in then out. She cannot speak again. She cannot speak. She has forgotten how.

Siegfried holds her uninjured hand tight in his now, his eyes soft. "We are free of them, Rue," he tells her. "It is an end, not a beginning."

The next kiss is against her mouth, and Rue holds him close, pretending with all her heart to believe it.

* * *

That night, they go to the garden. Autumn has fallen heavy on the land, but here there is still life, petals curled towards the sun, leaves thick and clinging to dark-colored branches. Without a human touch, the plants have become wild. There is green, endless and fragile. There is color amidst it, bright in spots like stars. The scent of flowers, all around them.

Rue sighs. Her bandaged hand is stiff and held close to her heart. Siegfried moves a few steps ahead of her, his shadow strong in the setting sun. He turns, looks to her once then again, and she knows he has noticed the dark beneath the eyes; she knows that by doing this, he is only wishing to lighten her spirits. She smiles, bending to touch one nail to a petal. "My prince," she calls after him, teasing. "Isn't it too dark?"

"Not at all," he answers, his steps light upon the grass and dirt. "There is just enough light."

The sun is a thin line above the forests' edge. She follows him, a branch nearly tripping her at the bend. "I'm sorry it's become like this," she says. Leaves crowd close, rustling low like a wreath above her head. At her ankles, flowers shiver and sigh in the wind. "When spring comes, we can tend to it."

"I am not worried," he says, and has circled, once again beside her, near her, warm against the shape of her back. He takes up the curl of her fingers, his other hand soft on her waist. With bright eyes, he leads her forward so that her steps spiral in a circle: one, two, three, four. They are dressed too formally for this – no light to lead their movement, no structure to steady against if someone should waver. She is not wearing toe-shoes, but Rue still feels every bone in her feet as they arch and steady, slaves to routine.

"It is true that this place has fallen into disarray," he says, and the words fit just so in the curve of her neck. "It has seen hardship, yes, and has suffered so much without care or love. Perhaps the plants have given up hope themselves that it will ever get better, even."

A breath hitches in her throat. The wind curls like ribbons, whispering through the space between their bodies. The air is thick and smells of grass, of dew, of sun and stars.

"To me, there is so much beauty here," he says, and they are words meant not for trees or vines. He looks at her; she looks down, to the weeds tickling at her ankles, to the flowers that brim and thrive despite them. "There has always been beauty here," he says, quiet, at the crook of her ear. She closes her eyes. I do not deserve this, she thinks. I do not deserve you, she means to say but does not. When she opens them again, he has moved in front of her, his smile warm, his hands held out.

For a moment, they stand still, there in a garden once lovely.

"Dance with me," he says.

She does.

* * *

She thinks to leave once.

Autumn has been long and cold and has given her much time to think, think of the story and its every careful piece, think of all that is wrong and can never be right. From this, Rue has realized several things.

The first: the priest was right. In this land, she may not be the one who caused the darkness, but it is she who sustains it, keeps its heart full and beating. Her blood has made sure of it.

The second: stories follow paths. Such paths are pliable, easily manipulated by well-placed words, but there are paths, nonetheless, and without them, tales would tear at the seams. Rue is not sure what this particular story's path was meant to lead to, but she knows it was not her waiting at the end, for no one – not her, not Tutu, not even its own author anticipated that the prince, beautiful and bright, would choose to love the Raven's false daughter most of all. With this thought, Rue hides her selfish smile firm against her wrist, for therein lies the problem. An abandoned tale suffers, but can always find its way once more. It is when a story leaps from its framework – diverts, bereft of reason or rhyme – that it collapses. She cannot be sure of this, but in her bones, she is certain it is true. She was never meant for a happy ending. The story knows this, and is smothered by her weight.

The third: If she were only a princess in her own right, all would be well. If she were pure-hearted, good and true, like all the maidens in tales she once read about with hungry eyes, the strings of this dying story would tug tight and adapt. After all, is that not how most tales of princes and problems come to a close? It is a tried-and-true ending, as easy to slip into as a piece of old clothing. Such a change would be unexpected to this particular story, yes, but familiar and foolproof, leaving few loose ends in its inclusion. The story would be saved. A path could be forged from it, she is sure. But Rue will not and will never fit into such a mold. Those maidens never bled hatred or wanting. They never dressed in black or wore frowns upon their lips or bore darkness in their eyes. The story cannot adapt to such a drastic character as she. Not once has a fairytale ended with the words _and the prince married a dark and selfish girl. _

And so the end is coming, quickly, horribly. The forest and sky waver more with each passing day, ripped and discolored like paper in water. Even the castle has begun to moan. And her prince. Oh, her prince. He smiles for her always, still. To him, it seems her every feeling is the world and his own stand small beside them – but when he thinks she isn't not looking, his eyes are on each window and away. He has realized it by now, she knows. There will never be another fall festival, grand ball, crowded marketplace. No one is coming back.

That night, she comes to bed late, having lingered in the library, paper cuts pressed deep into her fingertips. Siegfried is already asleep. He rests on his back, his arms held straight, his breaths low and whistling. His chest rises then falls, as gentle as a sigh.

Rue sits beside him. Unthinking, she reaches out to brush away a loose strand of hair from his face. Her hand lingers, her fingers drawing a path from his brow to his nose to his chin. Her palm fits snug against the swell of his cheek. He feels almost feverish.

What if he cannot bear the weight of this? The loss of his home, his very story. It is too much. It is worth far more than her love. This, she knows.

She removes her hand and sets it on the sheets. If he were to marry another, than – and remembers Tutu's lady with her bright eyes, soiled and scarred but still oh-so-lovely. A violent feeling churns deep in her stomach, but if it is hate burning there, she pretends otherwise. Rue dressed and danced and made her bed in such a feeling for far too long; there is no more comfort to be found there. She is tired of hating. Oh, how she is tired.

She looks away, to the far window, dark and stars like a painting within its frame. The chariot that carried them here still rests on a far hill, just outside the forests. It would be easy to lure the swans back to their reins with scraps. By dawn, she could be little more than a dream, long-melted into the horizon.

Siegfried reaches to her side of the bed; dreaming, he says her name. For a long moment, Rue is still. Then, with twin brusque movements, she kicks off her shoes and lies beside him. Her head settles just so under his chin. At once, his arms curl around her, crossed like wings at the low of her back. She brushes her lips across his chest – across the spot where his heart rests just below, whole and beating.

* * *

Winter is coming, and with it, the stomp and clack of horses' hooves, a swelling thunder in the distance. A day after the first frost, twenty red-faced men arrive at the gates upon dark stallions, their coats speckled with ice. The priest leads them. Rue watches from the bedroom window. Siegfried stands at the door, his smile warm but careful, so careful as she turns and sees him there.

"Are you ready?" He asks.

There is nowhere to hide in this land, no place to go where they cannot follow. She sees these words in his eyes, grave in the space between them, and she knows he's surely realized by now that she heard what the priest said of her, so harsh that it bled through closed kitchen doors.

"Of course," she answers, and moves to walk beside him.

And so they go to meet them, the castle soon alive with footsteps, with boisterous greetings and shouts. Her prince easily calls each man by name, shaking their hands, refusing to let them bow before him. She is surprised at first to see that they don't shy away from her, each of them removing their wide-brimmed hat and kissing her hand, their lips dry and cold. Their gazes are quick to dart, though, from her to Siegfried to the priest, standing grave-faced in the corner, and Rue is not fooled. They are hunters, who know better than to capture their monster outright.

They've not even finished half-full cups of steaming tea before the priest asks for everyone to move into another room. "One apt for private discussion," he says, and all of the men set their saucers down at once. Siegfried insists that Rue be allowed to join, his hand gripped tight to hers, but she stills at the bend of the hall, her thoughts tangling with what the priest has surely told them, with what they'll call her, brand her, accuse her of doing or not doing all with no semblance of discretion. Her imagination proves cruel.

"No," she tells him, her hand soft as she removes his. "I will be fine."

They are not worth my time, she almost continues with, full of quick, false bravado, strength come and gone. It will not help anything, she knows. She bites her lip instead. In turn, Siegfried nods and says nothing more, the weight in her voice not lost on him. Still, she feels his eyes on her back, following her until she turns at a corner and is gone.

Rue escapes. She does not wish to hear echoes, ghosts of words and shouts that will surely brim all through the castle, and so she ventures outside, her footsteps stark on the frozen ground, her every breath colored and hanging in the sky like white ornaments. She wears a thick shawl around her shoulders, but her face has already spotted with red. She will bear it.

She goes to the garden. A foolish idea, she realizes, for there is nothing to see there any longer. Trees huddle close, bare and blackened. Where flowers once curled towards the sun, there is now only sleet and dirt and crumpled, ice-kissed stems. She walks through it all, walks further and further and further still and soon, Rue has gone so far that she comes across something impossible. There, at the edge of the field: a ring of bright-colored daisies, their faces turned upward to a half-covered sun, wholly untouched by the chill. She catches her breath, bending to touch one. Perhaps there is magic here yet, she thinks.

Struck, she settles on her knees and moves to gather a few. Her hands move of their own accord; her fingertips are nimble as they dance across the stems, soft enough not to crumple a single piece as she bends and folds the flowers around one another.

It does not take long for her to complete a wreath. She sets it down within the ocean of her skirt gently, as if it were something truly precious. For a moment, she thinks not of foolish men, angry words, stories dead and dying. She looks at her hands and remembers when they were once small. Yes – little hands, calloused palms, fingers chubby and clumsy and nothing at all like the claws of a raven. A little heart, too. One that always felt much too big, beating through every trembling finger and toe as they sat together beneath that golden tree.

_Do you like it, my prince? _

_I don't know. _

Short of breath, she turns – but there is no one there. The tree behind her is dark, bare.

"What is that?"

She turns back. In the dip of the field just before the forest's edge, Tutu's lady stands. Her hair is tangled with wind and sleet, ice speckled on her reddened cheeks like burning stars. Rue's heart seizes. She pulls her skirt over the wreath.

"Nothing," she says, and it sounds much sharper than she means it to. "It's none of your concern."

The woman, as usual, is unaffected. She steps closer, stumbling onto her scratched knees like an eager child would. She isn't even trembling.

Rue holds her head high, her lips firm and thin. "Are you not cold?" She asks.

Tutu's lady smiles. "I have lived many winters in this forest," she says. "One becomes accustomed soon enough." She looks over Rue's head then, towards the castle, a dark shape against a white sky. "Why are you not with the prince? Is he well?"

Rue flinches; she hides her dark eyes in the turn of her shoulder. Do not speak as though you fit into our life, she wants to say. You know nothing of him or me or the ways we have suffered, she wants to say. The words settle harsh in her throat, but she bites them back. "He is within," she says, her shoulders held straight, every bit the prima donna to this amateur, "talking to foolish men and discussing my…future, as it were."

She expects a tell-tale look to flash across the woman's face, one of pity and fear, one that gives away what she surely has known about Rue all along. It does not come. The woman blinks, her eyes wandering. Her little mouth crinkles. "Why?"

Rue stares at her. After a long moment, she laughs bitterly. "Do not pity me," she snaps. "It is painfully obvious what I am. Or are you really that naïve? Do you not remember the ravens when they came and killed the people here? Do you not see them in my eyes? Look!"

Tutu's lady is silent for a moment. Both shoulders sink, her neck a flash of pale color amidst her crumpled dress. Her body is wavering, Rue realizes. It has become like the priest's, her colors whole and slow, her limbs thin as parchment.

"You smell like them," she finally admits, only to smile once more. "I do not think you are one of them, though. I do not think you are really like them."

Rue is still. Then with harsh hands, she takes the wreath from under her skirt and throws it a fair distance away, into a mess of dirt and shriveled plants. The woman watches it pass through the air with careful eyes, but does not move. "It was lovely," she begins to say. Her voice is soft, so soft. It makes something in Rue hurt. "Honestly, I –"

"Are you in love with him?"

She cannot hold it back any longer. She strains one hand across her chest, close to the ardent thrumming of her heart. In the words, she hears all of Kraehe's cruelty. It frightens her in a way few other things do.

As always, the woman does not notice such harshness. Her face merely colors, a flush of red brimming at the tips of both ears. Her mouth is a gaping, silent shape. It reminds Rue of Ahiru, so obvious in her every feeling, but the memory hurts more than helps, and she has to look away.

After what feels like an eternity, she takes a breath and smiles. "Nearly my entire life, I spent at her side," she says, the words so gentle they seem like raindrops, pitter-pattering in the breath of earth between them. "In time, her voice seemed to come from my mouth. Her thoughts, always in the air around me. Does it not seem natural that her every feeling would become my own?"

Both women look at one another, there in a black garden. Rue clutches her wrist so tight that the skin there begins to sting. The Raven's blood hisses against every one of her bones. It is strange, though – for the first time, she does not find it unbearable. There are other words, a soft warmth above it all, like sunlight after a storm. There is still her own voice.

Her grip relaxes. Her lips flutter, briefly held in a tired smile. She sighs, and the sound of it rings hollow in her mouth, more sad than bitter.

"Well then," she hears herself say, hoarse. "Maybe he really should marry you instead."

At once, the woman's eyes light up. "Ah," she says. Her hands rise, as though to bring Rue to her. "There. There! That is why you are not like them."

But the moment has passed, and Rue feels herself crumble, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. You foolish child, she thinks, and shakes her head. "I did not mean it," she says. "Can't you tell? It was a lie."

"Doesn't matter," Tutu's lady insists, and suddenly she is there, her bare knees grazing the fringe of Rue's skirt, her eyes close enough for their color to be clear: blue, soft. "It doesn't matter," she says again, gentler, and touches Rue's cheek, her palm fitting snug against near-frozen skin. "To say it means such a kind feeling lives inside of you. Don't you see?"

Rue does not flinch, nor think to pull away. The woman's hand is warm. Her smile, so bright.

"I am sure of it," she says. "You are simply a very brave girl."

The sun reappears as a greedy cloud passes at last; the wind picks up, startling in its harshness. In a rush, Rue comes back into herself. She pulls away from the woman suddenly, as if having been burnt, and stands. Her heart heaves and tumbles, clattering like fallen glass in her chest; her throat is sore with all the words she cannot say. She wants to say – but she turns and runs instead, kicking up vines and stems, her limbs numb and burning beneath her stiff skirt. She does not look back until she has reached the castle doors, until their shadows have encompassed her. When she does, Tutu's lady is gone.

* * *

She eats dinner alone; she waits in their room through the night, the silence smothering her, too heavy to bear. Siegfried does not come to bed until there is already color glistening on the horizon, his every movement heavy. Rue pretends to sleep. Through half-lidded eyes, she watches as he removes his shoes and shirt, each turn of his arm deliberate, thickened by the shadows.

"Rue," he says. With a harsh breath, she turns on her side, but Siegfried only laughs, crossing to the bed. With one hand, he takes up the mess of the tangled sheets, spreading it evenly over the rise and fall of her body. With the other, he touches her face. His thumb brushes across her bowed eyelashes. "Why are you not asleep?"

She should have known he would not be easily fooled, and with a smile that is tired, sad, but wholly warm, she looks up at him. "What did they say?"

He smiles as well. His hand moves, from her face to the wild ocean of her hair. "Nothing I did not already expect them to say."

She is quiet. Her curls spread at his touch, seeping across the white of their sheets like an approaching storm. The line of her neck flashes beneath them, trembling.

"It is too cold to travel now," he says, and his palm, warm, stills her. "They will have to stay."

"Of course."

He slumps down beside her and brushes a clumsy kiss across her cheek. "The worst is over," he says, and then is gone, drowned in his exhaustion. Rue is still. She waits until he begins to snore, then covers him with the sheets. Outside, the sun rises, swollen like a flame as it burns through dark and clouds.

Below, she can hear footsteps, heavy on the stone.


	3. Winter

_Winter_  
(i'm not ready / i'm not ready / for the weight of us)

And so they stay. The winter months spread out before Rue like a sea, interminable, so far-reaching that she cannot hope to see the shore on the other side. Each day digs its nails deep into the ground and holds fast. Every hour is palpable, its tension thick in her skin, her throat, the pull and push of every bone. What else is there to do but bear it? Spring will come.

For the most part, the men do not bother her, though it is strange to glimpse their shadows in each hallway, to hear their voices in room once empty. They do not need her for meals; a few know how to cook and are careful to make enough for everyone. They do not want to know much about her; only once or twice do they ask a question that requires more than a one-word answer. Manners have not been forgotten, for they bow and open doors as well as any well-raised man would. No, Rue thinks. It is not within their behavior, but their presence itself that true warnings lie. Every free moment is spent at Siegfried's side, entertaining him with robust tales of triumph in far-away lands, asking to be taught his legendary techniques of the sword and shield. Her prince is wary, yes, but he cannot help having missed the company, despite the circumstances. The men know this, and so does Rue. None of them are brave enough to be the reason he should leave her. They are merely ensuring that they will be one of the benefits.

The priest is different. There are no more pretenses; he carries himself with all the poise and disdain of a perfect man in an imperfect world. Rue avoids him to the best of her ability, but there are moments here and there when she must pass him in empty hallway. He never speaks, only looks to her with eyes dark and drowning. Hurry past me with your head bowed like a girl knowing of sin should, they tell her. Beg for my forgiveness, they tell her.

Rue will do neither. Each time he draws near, she stands tall, her toes pointed and her mouth a thin, thin curl. She does not pretend she isn't afraid; she can bear being graceless, if only for a moment. Pointedly, she holds his gaze, and does not look away until he does so first. She does this the second time they meet, the third, the fourth.

The fifth time, she stands in his way.

"If you have something to say to me," she says, the words like ice on her lips, all sense of politeness long bled clean from her, "then by all means, _say _it. There is no pretense where I'm concerned. There's nothing to me other than what you see before you." Her heart feels much too heavy, rattling through her chest like a caged bird. She means to stop, but a swell of emotion overtakes her, and the words tear their way out. "I am simply a girl who loves him!"

The priest is still. His face is a shadow, his eyes as stark as stones in a riverbed. With a grave breath, he looks away after only a moment; he passes, as ever, without comment.

Rue does not think of this moment again until several hours have passed, until it is night and she is alone in the bedroom once again. The voices of the men carry, like ghosts in the air all around her, and so she stands at the window, needing a distraction. The moonlight is thick and bright, coloring the day-old snow a brilliant pearl color, casting such deep shadows across the dips in the field that if looks as if ink has been spilled through them. The forest's edge trembles.

She remembers then and thinks of Tutu's lady, alone in that vast, cold forest. For almost a month now, Rue has not seen her. Her fingers strain across the windowsill, her knuckles white, the veins there thin and winding along the back of her hand like roads with no endings. She surely must be aware of the guests, must have some understanding of why they've come. It wouldn't take much at all for her to be made their champion, a lady of light and good to drown all her darkness in. There is motive; their encounter in the garden made that all that too clear. Even if she had not admitted it, Rue was never blind to the hunger in her eyes when she talked of the prince, for she saw the same look, however softened, in Ahiru's eyes; she saw the same look each time she glimpsed herself in a mirror, hardened and tainted but still raw underneath all the glamour. So why does she not appear?

_I am sure of it. You are simply a very brave girl. _

Rue sighs, and the soft sound bleeds into the breeze. She'd thought of those words when she had spoken to the priest; somehow, since that day, they'd woven into her, clung fast to her heart, her blood, her every bone. It's true, isn't it? It's such a simple thing, but she must keep reminding herself of it. When all her trappings are torn away, when all things foreign and forced upon her have been stripped clean and bare, she is only a child of unfortunate circumstances, human in every way.

She loves him, too. When everything in the entire world proved false, when her life was dark and cruel and lies, all lies, every word she spoke and every word spoken to her a _lie – _that was always true. She never lied about loving him. Isn't that enough?

Without meaning to, she steadies a hand against a near wall. It is made of stone, and yet, at the weight of her touch, it buckles with a sigh.

Ink stains every line in her palm, the color as dark as a wound.

* * *

A month passes, then another.

She finds little ways to measure the time, collecting the seconds and minutes and hours as though they are grains on a tilting scale: the changing of the men's bodies, weaker, ever-thinner. The number of days it takes for her blood to grow restless, to burn and murmur sharp, senseless things against her bones once again. How many nights in a row dreams wake her.

_Do you miss the ravens, my daughter? They were coarser then you, blacker then you, crueler then you. Now that they are gone, you are the only shadow left. Do you feel lonely in your gilded palace, in your aviary full of light? You always did love the darkest corners most of all. _

Rue muffles her gasp in the sheets; she turns her face towards the wall. She listens to the shuddering of wind on glass, to the cries of animals distant and unknown, to Siegfried's soft breathing, fitting just so between the bones in her back. It takes time, but she sleeps once more. If she dreams again, she does not remember it.

* * *

She is preparing some food for later one day when her prince slips into the kitchen, carrying a bundle of familiar pearl-white flowers, each petal fringed with half-melted ice. "The lady in white gave them to me," he says when she arches a questioning eyebrow at the sight.

"Oh," Rue says. At once, she returns to her work. Her hands are sticky and sore, kept so busy that she is nearly able to ignore how her shoulders tense, how the lean muscles just beneath the back of her dress are at once taut. Of course, she thinks, and frowns when Siegfried briefly stands with his back to her. Of course. "How kind of her," she adds a moment later with the shyest of disdain – only to blink as he turns and steadies her cheek with his hand, threading the stem of one flower through her curls with the other. It rests snug atop the crook of her ear, the petals tickling her skin.

"She asked me to deliver them," Siegfried says, pressing the rest of the bundle into her hands. "She said they were a gift for you."

Rue stares for several moments before realizing her lips aren't moving. "Oh," she says at last, the tone of the word very different the second time around. She clutches them to her chest, their thin, wispy shapes fluttering with each harsh breath she manages. Siegfried smiles and moves to find a vase. Her bread begins to burn, demanding attention, and so it went.

(She does not attempt to understand it. She only sets the flowers aside and shakes her head. She only thinks, with thin lips and a strange, brief warmth in her throat: you silly child, you _silly_ child.)

* * *

There are good moments, still. The men are, above all else, simple, and easily distracted by hearty dinners or clumsy jokes thrown about a room. When this happens, Siegfried will squeeze her hand or Rue will touch a nail or two to the low of his shoulder, and carefully, they'll slip out, escaping into the higher floors of the castle, hiding like children in rooms most unassuming. Often, they'll talk; other times, they dance. Once or twice, they've only enjoyed the silence, a simple thing that is, nonetheless, now rarely afforded to them. One morning, though, feeling especially chagrined, Rue kisses him the moment they step into an empty hallway, brusque and brazen and unthinking. She moves away only when she can no longer ignore the need to breathe, wobbling on her heels. He steadies her.

"The men would have surely found that far too scandalous to be done in their company," she says, rather wryly. Siegfried laughs, his voice like the peal of a bell. He touches his hands to her neck; his fingers splay across her skin, wings to frame the breath in her throat.

"I don't doubt it," is his response, heavy with warmth, and when he gently guides her back to him, Rue thinks, briefly but so, so vividly, that everything is certain to be all right after all.

* * *

When there is nothing else left to find comfort in, Rue dances.

Spring is coming. The men are relentless. She and Siegfried once performed together during these quiet afternoon hours, their movements clean and simple – but now, they have denied her even this, carting her prince off to rooms cold and windowless, where he will not be able to keep track of the passing of time. Rue carries her dark stares and sharp-edged words like weapons in hilts, easily brandished at the sight of them, but it cannot be ignored that she has no power, can find very little in this world of men and malice. Her lips pull thin at the thought. Still, she ties her toe-shoes with the utmost of care, the ribbons soft against her scratched fingertips.

She knows not how long she goes on, only that there will surely be blisters on her feet and blood in her shoes by the end of it. A naïve eye would think her sad and self-punishing, but briefly, in the breath after a turn or arabesque or grand jete, she finds room for a smile. Such cruelties are known to her. There are times when they are worth it.

So she dances, and thinks of other times, far-away places. She remembers being young and wandering onto the Academy grounds, taking in every lax and strain of the students' limbs as she watched through windows, mimicking such movements later when alone, hungry for the briefness of beauty. She remembers the silence that would fall over a restless room of first-years as she was called on to perform, the awe in their eyes nearly palpable, like sunlight on her skin. Without meaning to, she remembers a world that bled darkness all around her, the rattle of skeletons –

She stumbles. The drawing room spreads out around her, quiet, long-emptied of furniture. Light pours over her through two nearby open windows, thick and warm and tasting nothing of despair.

Her feet tense then draw into the nearest position. She begins again. She has no need of the past; there are several more recent concerns to occupy herself with.

The first: Not even three months in this land and the men are already foundering. The slow meshing of their colors reminds her of paint not yet dried; the lines of their limbs have grown dark, like sweeps of ink. Even the priest is nearly unable to support his own weight at this point, more caricature than flesh-and-blood. They do their best not to see it, but there is panic there, beneath all the stock pleasantness and joviality. Rue finds relief in this more than anything else, for it means they surely won't linger any longer than they must.

(There are times where she wonders why she and Siegfried alone have remained unaffected. The thought is brief and always silenced quickly. If there is a reason for their immunity, Rue thinks it would be best to remain blind to it.)

The second: For almost three weeks now, the Raven's blood has not spoken to her.

She pretends not to notice. She must, or –

Again, Rue stumbles. A dull pain thrums through both feet as they steady at awkward angles, the sun a burning shape at her back. Had this happened at the Academy, Mister Cat would have gently reprimanded her, speaking of how her thoughts needed not to stray, how her mind must be wholly captured by the dance, its every turn, every swell, every ebb and flow.

Her hands curl, held loose at the low of her stomach. Perhaps it would be best to follow such advice. After all, if anything, she has spent the entirety of her life thinking far too much. Rue remembers what it was like when all of her circumstances spread out before her like little cogs and screws needing to be clicked beside one another in just the right order, every person subjected to scrutiny, every word she spoke painstakingly designed to deter or egg on. Even before she remembered the Raven, the consequences of every action still loomed large in her darkest spaces, whether it was a few sharp words to a brazen classmate or inviting a lesser student to partner with her to prove her own mastery, as she had once done with Ahiru.

Well, she thinks, and steps into position once more. There is so much about her she has tried to change already. Why not this?

Again, Rue dances. This time, she thinks not of distant places, tiresome concerns. Her limbs are dark, clean lines in the shadow of the sun; her chest heaves, her neck tense and gleaming with sweat. A recent memory finds her, but it is not so much a thought as it is a feeling, washing over her like a wave across a shore – the rhythm of their footsteps in that empty hallway, the way his fingers curled in her hair as he kissed her. The hope that had fluttered somewhere deep and unfathomable within her, sharp and vivid, so brief that it may not have been there at all.

At last, she finishes without incident. With a deep sigh, she sinks to the floor, her limbs folding close to the stone as she completes a few simple stretches. Gingerly, she pulls her shoes' ribbons loose, tied so tight that her ankles ache upon being freed from them. She wipes her wrist across her neck; she hides a smile, quick, behind her fingertips.

It is a strange thing, hope. In a time that is starting to seem so far away, she remembers only a life of absolutes, of strings she could tug at and strain but never truly break, and yet – maybe now, everything will turn out all right. Maybe it – maybe she, she and nothing else – is enough.

She is strong enough to allow herself, at least, the possibility.

* * *

It is like a thousand lifetimes, this interim of cold and dark – but finally, winter comes to the precipice, and her bones loosen at last. The frost melts, leaving branching veins of water along each windowpane. The snow is whittled away until the white expanse of the kingdom is replaced with brown and black and touches of green, stark in spots like dabs of paint. Rue has never been one to allow her brighter emotions to flourish on the surface, but the men have begun to glance out windows to their horses, restless in the stables, to the forest and all the lands beyond it, full and waiting, and the sight lightens her footsteps. Spring is near, she thinks and feels all but reborn. Spring is near.

It is on a day like this, warm and pleasant and thoroughly unassuming that she comes upon them: two of the men, half-draped in shadow, voices low and steady. Normally she would not find them worth any attention, but the sound of her prince's name brims at the turn of her heels, followed by "a decision—" and "—quite the surprise." A breath from the bend of the hall, she stills; she stands with her black flat to the stone.

They speak. Rue listens. She does not catch every word, nor does she need to. What she hears is enough to cement her in place long after the men have tired of their conversation and moved towards the kitchen; it is enough for her heartbeat to quicken, skin burning cold just above it.

Siegfried has asked them to stay.

For a moment, she does not understand. Her head is heavy; her body feels indefinite, as if at a great length from herself. Her hands make sure that she is still whole, flitting from her legs to her stomach to the bowed shape of her collarbone. To her shoulders, dipping below then up to meet her fingertips as she breathes. To her neck, the muscles there strained, so thick beneath her thin, thin skin.

What does this mean? They have no further purpose in this half-dead land, no roles to fill besides the one they've taken upon themselves. Why would he ask this of them? Unless – unless they are meant to rebuild, restore, revive. Unless they have homes to return to, trades that must be begun anew. Unless…

Rue realizes then, and it is like a piece of her has clicked out of place, stuttering against cogs once-fluid. She is of several minds in that moment. The child in her is overcome, her sadness an ocean on all sides and she already half-drowned. The woman is resigned, so disappointed in herself because isn't this how it was always meant to end, of course it was, of _course_, how could you have dared to believe anything else? The raven – and this is what nearly brings her to tears, because it is soft-voiced, so much softer than before but still there, it is still there, and she had at last allowed herself to believe it had gone to sleep, it had _gone_ – is feverish with fury.

She does not know how or why she begins to walk, only that the hall is suddenly blurring in the corners of her eyes. Her bones press up against her skin; both hands flutter needlessly at her side, and for a moment, they feel like claws, stark against her skirt. No, Rue thinks, and shakes them until every fingertip has gone half-numb. She does not know for sure whether it's true, not yet, not yet. Maybe she's misunderstood. Maybe it was a lie. She cannot smother everything violent within her, but she must try. She must bear it, despite the fear and the aching and _oh, my prince, my prince, how could you _–

Short of breath, she reaches a bend in the hallway, only to stop a few steps beyond it.

At the other end of the corridor she's just entered is Siegfried, speaking with the priest. He is close and yet feels so distant to her, a colorless figure in a far-away place. Briefly, she is reminded of being small and graceless, hot tears pricking at her cheeks as he left her again and again, _stay and watch me, I practiced so hard_, and oh, it is too much. She has to close her eyes. Her heart swells, like fire in her chest. She wants to go to him and spill it out at his feet, scream herself raw until she is hollowed of everything she has ever felt. It will not be possible. She will try, nonetheless.

One breath, then another. Her lashes tremble, tickling the faintest line of her cheeks. She opens her eyes again just as Siegfried turns towards an open window, the sunlight bright on his face as he smiles.

A strange thing happens to her in that moment. It is not as easy as her emotions simply vanishing, of course – but still, their coarse edges are softened, whittled down to brief, easy bursts, fury come and fury gone. She has seen him smile before, but only rarely has it been with such warmth. He looked the same when he first saw the castle towers through the morning mist, when the priest, very much alive, appeared at the doors, when the men filled each empty, aching room with life again – because that's right, isn't it? He is not doing this to hurt her, but to save them, these people he loved and lost long before he even knew her name. She had realized that long before, hadn't she? She had planned to leave even, her thoughts only of the waiting carriage just outside the forests, of his face, half-feverish against her fingertips. That was before hope had bled into her, foreign and foundering but still bright, a star in all her darkness. Before –

She stands straight. Her breath stings; her skin burns cold beneath her dress. Both hands curl close to her chest, as if to catch her heart should it try to tear its way out of her. Yes, Rue thinks. The scale is skewed too far. She has already tried to take so much of him for herself. Isn't this only one more piece she will all but destroy in the name of love? One more precious thing that will crumple into ash the moment she takes it in her hands and tries to keep it safe.

In that moment, she decides.

Siegfried notices her then. At once, he moves past the priest, raising his hand in earnest. The sun catches in his eyes, coloring them a bright, burning amber, like a beacon calling her to port.

"Rue," he says.

Rue runs.

Again, he calls her name, but the sound is little more than a sting at the bare of her ankles, turned so quick she nearly stumbles. She doesn't know where she's going, only that she's already at the corner, already at the last step of the stairwell, already at the doors and away. Spring is still infant, unwieldy in its execution, seen in the way the field bleeds dark, messy color all around her. One of her shoes is dirtied, then the other. At the bend of a hill, she steps out of them, as easily as a ghost.

This isn't the end, she tells herself again and again, even as the words hurt, even as they settle in her stomach like stones. She could return to the Academy and continue her lessons. She could join a troupe, one just like the group that performed Sleeping Beauty for them, so small and warm and elegant. She could travel, see the dizzying, colorful places she once saw illustrations of in books. There was the faintest of curiosities there once, quickly smothered by her own violent heart, by the story's ever-taut strings – but it was there, nonetheless, and the thought is a comfort. She is more than what this blood has made of her. She will overcome it. She must. She _must_.

And yet, the stretch of mud she stops before is wide and blackened and curled at the edges like wings, such endlessly enormous wings that she is sure with one step she would drown in them, die in them. Rue faces the wind. Her shoulders begin to shake. She covers her face with her hands.

_My daughter, my daughter, my ugly daughter. Do you understand now? It did not matter that you escaped the despair within me. I had already devoured every last piece of you long before. I had already left you only your bones and a heart so coarse and raw that even a raven could not stomach it. _

"Rue!"

She turns. Her breath burns in her throat; one hand catches across her neck, fingers bent like a rope pulled tight. Siegfried is running towards her. She means to call out – _my prince? Here I am! _– but can't. She means to keep going, but her legs are cold, useless shapes beneath her thin skirt – or they are until suddenly, only a few feet from her, he trips. At once, she is there, having run through the mud, unthinking of her bare feet. She catches him against her just as his knees graze the grass.

"Thank you," he says, his breath burning at her wrist. "Once again, you've saved me."

He smiles up at her then, as bright and kind-faced as a child and oh, it is too much. Her hands tremble. She presses one nail into his shoulder, then another.

"How can you say that?" She did not mean to speak, but a voice tears its way out regardless, a voice that is not like hers at all, that is aching and monstrous and without grace, how could he ever love someone who speaks with such a voice, how _shameful_ – "I have not saved you. I've ruined it. All of this. Everything –"

Siegfried blinks, his smile unraveling into an uneasy shape. Gently, he takes her hands from his shoulders and steadies them. "What do you mean? What's wrong?"

She closes her eyes, unable to look him in the face. "If it were not for me, the story would not be suffering."

The sudden way he stills is enough to show her he understands. "No one knows that," he says after a moment. "It has been too long –"

"Even then!" Her voice reaches an ugly pitch, and at once, she bows her head. "Even then, I am still the one to blame! I am the one who kept you from regaining your heart. If it were not for me, you would have never have had to know any of this pain!"

Siegfried's breaths are shallow. He allows her hands to slip from his and cradles her face instead, his palms open and warm at her chin. "Rue," he says, and it is only when a few of his fingertips touch her cheek that she realizes she's crying. "Rue, listen to me –"

"Stop," she says, quiet but stern, and he does. She does not want to hear him say the words, nor does she need to. In one fluid motion, she reaches up and takes his wrists with both hands, holding them tight. "I know why you've asked them to stay," she continues, her voice cracking on every odd word, "and I understand the reasons for it, I really do. My love may have been enough to save you from the Raven's blood, but it is not enough to save all of this. It will never be enough."

The tears bleed into her curls and are gone. For one breath longer, she holds him to her. Then, with another, she steps out of reach, as simply as air.

(Because she is stronger than this. Because she is more than her selfishness, her wanting, her fear. Because she is simply a very brave girl.)

Silence. The wind is a steady thrum, sharp in her ears, cold at her back. In it, she can smell dew, the wetness of the dirt, flowers. They are in the garden, she realizes. Yes – there is the patch of daisies she picked stems for her wreath from, impossibly bright even on the darkest winter day. And there, the patch of land where, in the twilight of fall, they danced. Rue trembles but holds steady on her bare, blackened feet. With both hands, she gathers up her skirt and begins to turn away.

"Rue," Siegfried says again. She stops. His voice is warm. "I have asked the men to stay because I would like them to bear witness to our union. The priest has agreed to marry us."

At once, she draws in a breath, deep, like a person nearly drowned.

"What?" She asks.

He smiles and holds his hands out to her, fingers curled and palms open as if to say: come back, come back. "I would like it very much if you married me in a few days' time. Is that all right?"

She cannot look at him – not yet. Her lips form a variety of clumsy shapes. The words are swollen in her throat, hot on her tongue. "I couldn't," she says at last. "I can't –"

"I know," he says, softer than anything he's said before, and when she does not come to him, he comes to her, brings her in, envelops her. She fists her hands in his shirt. His heartbeat echoes against her knuckles, as steady as the chime of a bell.

"I've finally told them everything," he says, his voice warm in her hair. "What has happened outside the story, the suffering we've both weathered – and what's become of my blood."

Her breath hitches. "You mean –"

"Yes. They understand now, at last. Even if I was to do as they say, there is no guarantee the story could be saved. I am not the same as I once was. I cannot fit back into the role so easily. The Raven's blood has made sure of that."

With a harsh breath, she presses her forehead to his shoulder if only so that he will not see her cry again. Rue remembers: the feeling of love, as pretty as a little jewel in her hand. So warm, such a strong, steady pulse. How she clenched it between her fingernails and thought of breaking it: easy, like glass. How she dropped it into her father's blood and simply watched as its glimmer ebbed away. With a gasp, she clings to him all the more fiercely, the front of his shirt quickly dampened. In the end, her leaving would mean nothing. She cannot save him in that way, for she has already ruined him in this way, and beyond that, she imagines a world of deeper, slyer scars, simply waiting for the ones before them to be overcome. Yes, Rue thinks. She can do nothing. She doomed him the moment she chose to love him at all.

"Rue," he says, with more gentleness than she could ever deserve. His arms cross at the crest of her shoulders, holding her as she shakes. "Rue, please don't cry. Look at me. Please –"

"I am so sorry," she chokes out. She feels one of his hands leave her shoulder and fold just so beneath her bowed head. His thumb catches at the curve of her chin, tilting it up. She allows him to lead her, but still, she doesn't open her eyes, her long lashes thick with tears. "I can't be forgiven for this. I _can't_."

"Rue," he says again. "Look at me."

Unthinking, she does. Her vision blurs, colors bleeding into one another, but at last, there he is. His eyes are soft. His smile, wholly genuine.

"It's too late for that," he says. "It's too late. I already have."

With anyone else's voice, such words would sound hollow, pitying – but the warmth in the way he's looking at her now is unwavering, and for not the first time, she thinks: how could she have ever believed the prince would be better off without his heart?

"There's still a chance," she hears herself say, the words half- raw at their edges. "If you tried –"

But Siegfried shakes his head. "Those who were lost may return, yes, but with the way I am now, they could come back half-formed or corrupted or – or not even human at all. I couldn't risk that."

She tells herself to breathe, in then out, in then out, the rhythm of it so sudden and heavy in her chest that she feels she may faint. His hands, held at her shoulders, tighten, as though he is the one who now needs to be steadied by her.

"Believe me when I tell you this. If there is nothing else I can do to save my kingdom – well, then I will mourn its loss until the end of my days. I can only pray that those who left have found some measure of contentment wherever they are now. As for those who stayed behind, I will cry for them," he says, his voice suddenly thick, and she knows he already has, many times, "and carry them with me always. It will not be easy, I am sure, but it is a loss I can bear." He winds his fingers against her sleeve gently, so gently. "I could not bear to lose you again."

Rue no longer knows if she is smiling or crying – maybe both. Her heart is a violent, trembling thing, the weight of it a sharp pain in her chest. She wants him to stop. She wants him to never stop.

Siegfried smiles into her hair; he leans in so close that the warmth of each word brushes her lips. "Nothing will change the fact that I am in love with you, Rue," he says. "I'm only more aware of it with every day that passes. No matter where we may go, what hardships we have to weather – I want to be at your side. I can only hope you feel the same."

He takes one of her hands in his own and holds it tight, his skin dry and warm as he threads his fingers between hers. He closes his eyes, waiting. Over his shoulder, Rue sees the castle, dark against a clean sky. She thinks of the men, of their black eyes, of the smell of ink and the way it stuck to her, wet in the lines of her palms – but somewhere, a bird is chirping, its graceless melody a promise of spring. Siegfried squeezes her hand, and that is a promise too, written across every finger, the strain of her knuckles. Rue breathes in. She breathes.

"Yes," she says at last, hoarse, and he looks up at her again. "That will be all right."

Siegfried blinks. "What will?"

She cannot hold back a smile, her eyes burning again with the threat of tears, though this time for an entirely different reason. "It will be all right if we get married. Did you ask me that a moment ago, or was it my imagination?"

His mirroring of her smile is an answer in itself. Unable to contain herself, she erases the step between them, embracing him so fervently that he stumbles backwards, unprepared, the two of them falling back into a heap among the ice and grass.

"Are you all right?" Siegfried asks at once, alarmed, surely thinking she's crying, thinking she's been hurt – only to see her laughing into her cupped hands. Rue cannot remember ever having laughed before without the weight of malice, of pity, of pain and disbelief. It feels wonderful. It feels like life.

"I'm fine," she says. With one hand, she reaches out to steady herself against the ground. Her fingertips brush a strange shape, half-hidden by the remains of a bush; she pulls the object free, wondering, and – and, _oh_, it's a wreath. It's the wreath she wove at the beginning of the season, the flowers as fresh and bright as the day she plucked them from their stems. How is that possible?

"What is that?" Siegfried has pulled himself upright by then as well. Rue gently touches the crown-shape, the woven green stems, each soft petal. With a smile, she reaches up and places it on Siegfried's head.

"Do you like it, my prince?" She asks.

He laughs then too. "Yes, very much," he says, and it is one last severance, quick and clean, from what has come before. It is a beginning.


End file.
